


Wanted

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Cowboys, Humor, M/M, Roleplay, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: "I'll just remind you, you said you were up for a game." He jutted his chin forward. "And part of you is obviously still up for it."





	Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after watching "Brokeback Mountain" on a plane. That's my excuse.

"I feel like an asshole."

Richie crossed his arms and frowned, which only made his current state all the more ridiculous.

"You _look_ like an asshole," Jon said, leaning back against the headboard and blatantly raking his eyes over the sight before him. "It's perfect."

Richie glared at him. "You know I wouldn't do this for anyone else in existence, right?"

Jon smiled. "You better not." He loved that Richie was kind of a slut, as long as _he_ was the only one seeing it these days.

He patted his lap. "Git along, lil' doggy."

"I swear to god, if you say that again…"

Jon furrowed his brow in faux curiosity. "What?"

Richie set his jaw, arms still crossed defiantly. 

"What?" Jon repeated. "But I'll just remind you, you said you were up for a game." He jutted his chin forward. "And part of you is obviously still up for it."

Richie's lips twitched, his stern expression faltering, and Jon knew he'd won the day. It was never in doubt, of course -- especially since his little doggy was already wearing nothing but a Stetson and a half-smile, cock partially out of the holster.

Jon reached down and began to stroke himself. "C'mon. Saddle up, cowboy."

Richie dropped his arms. "You do the worst cowboy impression."

He kept bitching as he mounted the bed and crawled toward the headboard. "Seriously, if you keep talking like that I'm gonna punch you."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Is that any way for a cowboy to talk to his wild bronco?"

Richie straddled his thighs so they were face to face but not quite touching, then pushed his hat back from his forehead. "Wild? You almost had a panic attack yesterday 'cause they were out of your toothpaste."

Jon skimmed his fingertips along one of those bare arms. "I like Aquafresh. It's all-in-one."

Richie finally succumbed to a full smile. "Good point." He tilted his head to the side and hovered his lips above Jon's. "I do enjoy your minty freshness."

The kiss was oddly sweet, considering the surliness Richie had been dishing out for the past hour -- ever since the game was put on the table. Jon felt a little guilty, because he knew Richie was uncomfortable but also incapable of saying no to sex.

But he didn't feel that guilty. All he'd done was ask Richie to keep the hat on. And maybe pretend, just a little, to be a cowboy. And maybe break him like the bad bronco he was. That's all.

He wasn't even sure how the thought had formed. It hit him out of nowhere onstage two nights before -- during _Wanted,_ naturally. During the solo, specifically. He'd had to deal with a semi for two more songs before they got backstage, where Richie had been happy to provide some quick relief.

Over the next couple days, Jon kept thinking the impulse would pass. But it only took up more and more of his head space. Earlier that night, when he'd told Richie what he wanted -- after a couple drinks -- the response had been less than enthusiastic.

"The _hat?_ Why?"

"It makes you look mysterious. Without it, you're just a guy from New Jersey."

In retrospect, he could've given it a better sell. Richie seemed to suspect he was being made fun of. But despite all the teasing, Jon was deadly serious about getting this rodeo started.

He slid his hands up Richie's thighs and around his hips to cup his ass -- winning exactly the response he wanted, as Richie thrust his tongue in deeper, pressing him against the headboard.

Out of habit, Jon moved a hand to the back of Richie's head, and quickly realized the one drawback of the situation: no hair-grabbing. Richie pulled back a bit and grinned smugly.

"Want me to take it off?"

Jon shook his head. "The rule is, the hat stays on. If it comes off, you lose."

"What happens then?"

"To be determined."

Richie darted his gaze to Jon's lips then his eyes. "I don't think I like your rules."

Jon decided to dispense with words, grasping Richie's ass firmly and rolling his hips so their cocks brushed. He would've smirked at the gasp that provoked if he weren't busy moaning himself.

And then he was drowning happily in sensation, as those lips kissed a warm trail down his neck, to his collarbone, his shoulder -- the hat brim pressing into his check, the scent of it filling his nostrils.

He'd never known it had a scent, but there was definitely some sweet, musky blend -- probably the cologne of the week and that stupid coconut shampoo.

Richie started moving down his body, tongue teasing his nipples, fingertips circling his navel, the ultimate goal becoming obvious. As much as it pained him, Jon grabbed at his shoulders. 

"Unh-uh," he panted. "You're goin' for a ride, cowboy."

Richie lifted his head, looking primed to protest, but stopped short as Jon reached for the lube. Wordlessly, he crawled up again, giving Jon just the angle he needed for his slicked fingers.

He kept his eyes on the beads of sweat forming on Richie's chest, watching them trickle down to his swollen cock. Listened to the increasingly desperate moans as Richie rhythmically rocked onto his fingers.

Sounds that instantly grew deeper and rougher when Jon finally clutched his hips and pushed in.

"Jonny," Richie breathed, as if in relief. " _Guh._ "

Jon pressed his head back, needing space in his throat for the scorching air he was taking in gulps. He felt himself sliding down the headboard, as Richie took a surer stance over his hips, saddling up like a true cowboy.

Jon swatted him on the hip. "Giddy up."

"Swear to god," Richie said, with a breathy little laugh. "I'll punch you."

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but could only manage a choked moan as Richie recovered his rhythm from before -- pressing his palms onto Jon's chest and rocking on his lap. At some point he paused to tighten around him, and Jon swore he was seeing those proverbial stars.

"Fuck," he grunted, bucking his hips. 

Richie exhaled sharply and threw his head back -- almost losing the hat, but darting a hand back to secure it just in time.

"N-nice riding," Jon commended.

Richie looked down at him and smiled, and Jon reached up to sweep a thumb over his cheek. 

"Pull the hat down, OK?"

Richie gave him a questioning look, but did as requested, tugging the brim over his forehead so a shadow fell over his eyes.

"Yeah," Jon said, his breath catching in his chest. "Perfect."

And then he was thrusting up like there was no tomorrow.

"Fuck," Richie gasped, falling forward as his knees slid farther apart. He grabbed the headboard to steady himself, groaning as Jon kept bucking into him. For a hot second, Jon thought he might come undone from those sounds alone.

But then Richie lurched farther forward, landing his palms on the mattress. In the next instant, he caught Jon's wrists and pinned them against the bed by his head. He leaned in close enough that the hat brim brushed Jon's forehead.

"Are you trying to throw me?"

Jon smiled, even though his heart was thudding into his chest wall.

"You can try," Richie murmured, squeezing himself around Jon's cock in the most exquisitely excruciating way. "But I'm staying on."

Jon shut his eyes, feeling those hands tighten around his wrists, watching swirls of color dance under his eyelids. Listening to some fucking gorgeous sound bubble up from Richie's chest and echo off the walls.

In those moments, he was certain this was the best idea he'd ever had.

There was only the silky tight heat engulfing him, the weight of the hands holding him down, the sharp breaths at his ear, the little half-sobs punctuating the air around him.

Eventually, Richie eased up, drawing one of Jon's hands to his cock. "Please," he almost whispered, shuddering as soon as Jon took hold.

The little beads of sweat had formed rivulets, and in the low light Jon watched their meandering path from Richie's heaving chest to his own hand. He knew the ride was almost over when he started concentrating his efforts on the tip of that heavy cock, and Richie began babbling -- in Latin, for all he knew.

There was a strangled sound as Richie dropped his head and then snapped it back so quickly, the hat slipped. If Jon gave an extra thrust to finally knock it off, so be it. It didn't matter -- nothing mattered for a short stretch of time, except that deep searing pressure and bittersweet release.

As they came down, he kept clinging to Richie's hips, while his own body gradually melted deeper into the mattress. At some point, he felt hands on his, and knew he had to let go. So he did -- a rush of cool air hitting him as Richie rolled off. It was partly a relief, and partly not.

Jon reached blindly toward the nightstand and found his strategically placed hotel towel. As he wiped off his chest and belly, he heard a soft laugh.

"For a wild bronco, you're kind of a neat-freak."

He turned his head to peer at his bedmate, who was strewn out on his belly, looking thoroughly fucked. 

"I'm complicated," Jon explained, dumping the towel on the floor.

Richie smiled and scooted over, wrapping a leg over Jon's and tossing an arm across his chest. "Mmm," he murmured, in what Jon took as agreement, then kissed him softly on the lips.

Jon moved his fingers through a few sweat-dampened locks of hair before remembering.

"The hat fell off," he said, as soon they broke apart.

Richie pulled back and rolled his eyes. "So? I stayed on, in case you didn't notice."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I noticed. But the hat came off, which means you lose."

Richie shrugged then leaned in to nuzzle his neck, briefly catching his earlobe between his lips. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Jon thought he felt his cock improbably stirring again, but maybe it was a cowboy-hat-related placebo effect.

"You have to try again tomorrow," he decreed. 

"Fine." Richie's voice was muffled as he dragged his lips down the side of Jon's neck. "I'll glue the thing on."

"S--stop being a brat."

Richie paused to lift his head. "I'm a cowboy," he half-sang, in a terrible drawl.

Jon smiled. "And you love it." Because it was safe for them to say "love" within certain parameters.

"Mmm," Richie replied -- again, in what Jon took as agreement.

He reached for the hat, still beside his legs, and placed it on Richie's head.

"You made some sound," he said casually. "It was fucking nuts. I wanna try to recreate it and record it for the next album."

Richie laughed then pressed up to look at him, hat askew.

"You know I'd do anything for you."

Jon blinked. "Yeah." He hoped it wasn't really true -- because that was slightly terrifying.

"But," Richie added, putting the hat aside, "I won't sleep in this thing."

He curled back into his previous position, lying partway on top of Jon. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but Jon didn't hate it, either.

Just as his eyelids were growing heavy, he felt a little squeeze.

"I have an idea," Richie said softly. "Tomorrow night we can try steer wrestling."

Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open. He glanced down, seeing only the top of Richie's matted-down sex hair. 

"Wrestling?" he said, wincing at the quiver in his voice. "There's no way that hat will stay on."

"Nope."

Jon smiled. "Yippee ki-yay."

 

END


End file.
